I'm Still Here
by BeTrueToThyself
Summary: Response fic to Mousme's "Deprivation" w/ permission. Sam's five senses have faded out one by one, but how does he even know he's still alive or that his brother is still there beside him?  Turns out, there really are more than just the five.  One-shot.


**A/N: **This is a response fic to Mousme's "Deprivation." (Found here: .net/s/5803463/1/Deprivation – read it; it's good.) Sam's five senses have faded out one by one, but how does he even know he's still alive? Turns out, there really are more than just the five. One-shot.

I'm Still Here

First it was taste that disappeared. Then smell. Then sight, sound, and touch. By all rights, Sam should feel dead. Isn't that what the end should be? Oblivion? He can't see if his brother is in the same room, can't hear him move, can't feel his steps vibrate through the floor, can't even _smell_ him. Sam's world has narrowed down to the prison of his own body.

The five-fold loss is unimaginably devastating, and for a long time, all he can do is lie curled up on his bed. There is nothing that he _can _do. He's not even sure anymore what state they're in, much less motel. For all he knows, his brother has bundled him up and taken him to Bobby's. He does know that for awhile, he was sitting, and he knows it was in the Impala because of the beyond-familiar bench seat and the sense of acceleration. Even if his fingers couldn't tell him the texture of the leather, he recognized the way it cradled him. And he knows that he sat that way for hours. So he _could _be at Bobby's.

But he doesn't actually _know_. It's been maybe two or three days since the final loss and the nerves in his skin went numb. He thinks it's been that long. It's a little difficult to count time when he can't see the light and he sleeps at all hours. Mealtimes are regular, though, as far as he can tell. But besides sleep, there's really not a whole lot else for him to do. And that's the horrifically frustrating part – the utter lack of stimuli. The abrupt shove into a sedentary lifestyle makes him restless and irritable, but he can't interact with Dean, can't read, can't go online, can't… anything. For a good long while, it's all… "can't."

But while it may not be much anymore, his analytical mind can't help but to categorize what's left. Or rather, resurrect the memory of the categories he's read about in class: nociception, thermoception, equilibrioception, proprioception, interoception, along with a sense of time, direction, the much-disputed intuition… and thought. Emotion. Memory.

Nociception: pain. He likes that one. It's concrete. Sometimes he'll wrench a finger or press down hard on a cut or bruise just to _feel _something. The world has become an abyss, but the pain lets him know he's still there. Or what else is around him, because he certainly knows whenever he runs into something, which happens every damn time he stands up.

Thermoception: temperature. He would have thought that that was touch-involved, but as it turns out, that's just pressure, texture. And equilibrioception: balance, acceleration. That at least made the car ride interesting – turning corners, braking. And he can still feel dizzy, though he thinks he'd rather be rid of that. He knows up from down, can still walk – maybe not in a straight line, but he doesn't exactly tip over at the slightest provocation. And interoception: stretch receptors throughout his body still respond. He may not truly be able to tell that he's eating – there's no flavor, no scent, no pressure of food in his mouth – but he knows when he's full. And he's learned that he can still gag, for all the good it does him. Feel nauseous and throw up, even. Feel tired or alert, sickly or healthy. Feverish… or otherwise.

Then there's proprioception: the feel of his body's location – he doesn't need to see or feel to know that he's lifted his hand to his forehead, after all. Fairly useful, that one. Probably wouldn't even be able to so much as twitch without it. He's not paralyzed. No, no, someone out there still wants him capable of suffering, still wants him able to stand up and scream, for all that he can't hear it, can't feel it until his throat starts to go raw. They still want him able to attempt suicide. Not that he has, not yet.

But he's sure thought about it.

And as for intuition, he knows when Dean stares at him. Knows exactly the direction, the intensity. And it's the most he's felt all day. So he instantly rises to his feet, shuffles forward until he clips his hip on something. It's actually a relief to feel the pain amidst the void, and he feels some of the tension in his face slide away. But he just sidesteps whatever-it-is and keeps heading toward where he could swear he feels his brother. His path is unimpeded, until he feels his outstretched hands simply stop. The surface is warm, mostly flat. Then he feels a similar heat from beneath his palms bloom onto his right cheek, so he brings his hand up to it, but it stops an inch before he can touch his own skin. He presses hard, feels his cheek flare with mild pain. It must be his brother's hand on his cheek. It slides away from his grip, and he feels the warmth of Dean's arms around him, the warmth of his brother's chest against his own. He grips back tight, burying his head into Dean's shoulder. It's a strange sensation – his arms are held out in a hug and there's warmth all along them, but no pressure. No texture under his hands. No scent of cologne rising up, not even body odor, much less the sight or sound of Dean.

But he can still tell it's his brother. He can still feel the love and concerned worry pouring his way. And he can still return it for all he's worth.


End file.
